Small Differences
by Links6
Summary: Sam has to helps a still cold-ridden Michael when he gets drunk during a job... sick!drunk!Michael caring!awesome!Sam
1. Small Differences

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Burn Notice or ANY of its characters... this is purely fan ...fiction

AN: This is dedicated to : ilovemyboys

This was originally their idea... to have Sam help Michael out when Mike got a bit...er... drunk during a job xD

Sometimes... it's the small things that make the biggest differences.

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Small Differences

"Sam, where's Michael?", Fiona asked as she finished off her second pizza slice, "Do you think he's alright?". She snapped the box closed and moved it out of Sam's grasp before the ex-Navy SEAL could snatch his fifth slice.

His eyelid twitched involuntarily before he answered, "He'll be back later, Fiona… He's out with a client, you expect him to be home by curfew?" he joked. The older man almost fell sideways off his chair as he leant over to grab his next slice.

"He always checks in… " she countered and slapped Sam's hand, "Besides, he's not over his cold yet… ".

Sam furrowed his eyebrows and sighed before checking his cell. _1 new message._

He opened the message. _Pick me up. ASAP. _

…and that ASAP was an hour ago.

"Got a text from Mike, I'm going to pick him up…" Sam said and grabbed Michael's car keys, "You think he'll mind if I take his car?".

"You want to _walk_ him home from your prom date?" Fiona sarcastically countered.

Sam huffed before walking to the car. The drive itself didn't take too long. At least _The Yellow Banana _bar wasn't too far into the heart of Miami. With traffic the way it is in summer, it'll be a miracle to get in and out in under an hour. He parked a ways down the road and headed into the bar.

The warm air inside the bar could quite possibly cook an egg right out of the air. It hit Sam square on the chest and set his moodring from green right down to yellow –border lining red. _Jolly good fun._

"Mike?" Sam called as he headed over to the bar. It was peak happy-hour and all the local patrons were thoroughly enjoying their beers. Well, beer and soccer…. always the happy combo –accompanied by the choir of free cashews.

He skimmed through the crowd until he reached Michael. He was slumped forwards over the bar, one arm propping up his head and the other still holding a cider. Two beers, four empty glasses and a whole round of shots stood empty in front of the man… But, Sam had never known Michael to _ever _go overboard with his clientele drinking game… Maybe it wasn't him… It looked like him?

"Mikey?" he repeated, putting his hand on the man's shoulder.

Bad move. Michael started and stumbled backwards, causing him –and his barstool- to go flying backwards. Sam, on the other hand, was too shocked from his friend's actions to even try and break the fall. He leaned down and hooked his arms under Michael's and hoisted him upright.

"You alright, pal? You took quite a dive," Sam joked and turned his friend to face him.

Michael rubbed the back of his head, "Y-yeah… I –ush…" he cleared his throat before continuing, "I'm fine… uh… let's get out oshh here". He stood still though, his eyes swimming.

Sam smiled awkwardly, "Kay… let's go…" he stealthily put his hand on Michael's back and guided him to the exit. He knew, even while Michael was plastered, that the young man would still be utterly humiliated by his own lack of focus during a job. Even if it _did _serve a purpose, he would still hate himself for it for some time.

They exited the noisy bar without too much of trouble, but then, _it_ struck.

_Any time you have to submit yourself to heavy drinking, staying warm and hydrated helps to keep your focus. Your body metabolizes the alcohol faster, and that allows you to keep your bearings without the hangover. But, anytime you stop blasting your system with water or get exposed to the cold, your body will do what comes naturally._

By the second dry heave into the alley trashcan Sam was officially worried. Michael spat out the remaining acid taste in his mouth and coughed. "_I think that laffhs round wash a bit overboard,_" Michael stated darkly and straightened up.

The rush of blood sent him nearly collapsing again, but this time Sam was ready. He grabbed Michael by the shoulders and didn't waste time guiding him to Michael's 1973 Dodge Charger.

He unlocked the passenger door and helped Michael into the car. It took some effort, but Sam always knew that Michael never really did like doing things the _easy way. _And of course, just to prove that theory Michael insisted on curling into himself when Sam tried trapping him into the seatbelt.

"Move your arm, Mikey," Sam repeated the second time as he tried to worm the seatbelt to underneath Michael's arms. But, it was obvious that the ex-spy wasn't about to move any time soon. He figured the nausea hadn't died down just yet. Sam resorted into pulling the belt –that would've covered his chest- up and over Michael's head until only the belt at his waist remained. "Is that okay?".

Michael nodded stiffly, "Mmm sorry, Sam," he muttered, his eyes still clamped shut. He moved his hand up to his head and dug his fingers into his hair.

_And there's the headache._ Sam would've laughed if he wasn't so worried. He shut the door and walked to his own. "I'll drop you off at the loft," he said and put the keys in the ignition, "… or, rather crash at my place?".

Michael's annoyed dismissive hand was all reply he got. Sam shrugged and started the Charger.

When Michael shot forwards and yelped momentarily, Sam almost planted a round into an innocent bystander. "What's wrong?" he asked, his hand hovering in the air, unsure of what to do to help.

"Headache… mmhh cold ishn't over," Michael slurred and coughed again.

Sam shoved his Glock back into the back of his pants, "That's okay, Mikey, we'll dope you up once we get you back home" he replied and started the drive, "So, you got the intel on the mobster?".

"He washhnntt the guy… hesshh the poster boy… thinngghks he's the leader," Michael chuckled to himself before sneezing loudly. Even as completely drunk the burnt spy was, he couldn't help his habit of trying to pass it off as just dust in the air.

The older man noticed this though and sighed internally in relief… if he was still worried about his pride and appearances, then he wasn't about to die from the bout of alcohol poisoning. "You think it's Val?" Sam asked, making the last turn into the road to the loft.

"Yeashh…" Michael paused, his voice catching in his throat. He cleared his throat twice before continuing, "She's been shhtrinnging them … I ffiinkk her recoorrds is-" he paused again.

Sam glanced at Michael to see him slumping forwards and trying hard to stifle a yawn. "-are fake? It's possible… I can't believe I didn't check hers… I'll get on it as soon as I can," he said and parked in front of the loft, shutting down the engine and getting out.

By the time Michael had managed to find the handle to the door, Sam was already by his side. "Soon asshh you pickiinnhhgg me up?" Michael snapped angrily and grabbed hold of the door frame to help himself out. When his grip failed and he was sent stumbling back into the car, Sam held out his arm.

"Sorry about that… I don't really check my messages often…" the older man apologized sincerely, "But… why didn't you just call?".

The look Michael sent Sam at that moment proved that the young man was indeed family of Madeline Westen. It was quite possible "The Look" was invented by the Westen family.

Sam practically dragged his friend up the steps to the top and unlocked the door. He managed to drag Michael up to the mattress, but just let his friend fall face-first into the old mattress. The FBI-informant waltzed up to the fridge and pulled out an ice-pack and a bottle of water.

"You got some cold-meds stashed here somewhere?" Sam asked and walked back to the younger man.

Michael sneezed loudly into the mattress before pushing himself up, "I've goohht some … over… ove…" he resorted to pointing to the last drawer in the kitchen next to the stove. He gladly accepted the icepack and water bottle, but seemed much more at ease to cuddling with the objects, instead of using them for a practical application.

Opening the drawer slightly, Sam wasn't surprised when he saw the slight glint of a wire right on the edge of it. He reached up into the upper drawer and pulled out a knife. He cut the wire and opened the drawer fully. It didn't surprise him that Michael had set up that booby-trap. Not after his loft was broken into last time. Although it was primitive, a trip-wire was still the most effective trap of them all. The wire was attached to the pin of the grenade to the back of the cabinet, behind the drawer.

Shoving the first-aid, emergency blanket and ibuprofen to the side, he spotted the cold meds right at the back.

"You should thank Fiona for this… really, Mike… extra-strength _and _it's cherry-flavoured… " Sam popped two tablets out for his friend and held it out towards him, "A woman must really like a man if she buys him something like _that_".

"Thankkghs, Sam," Michael said, completely oblivious to Sam's insinuation, and lied down on the mattress again.

Sam smiled and left the cold medicine next to Michael's mattress, "You want anything else? You look pretty bad," Sam said and placed a hand on his friend's forehead.

"I'mm _fine!_" Michael snapped, agitatedly. He was just too tired to work up enough steam to actually _stay _angry at this point.

"Right… well… I'll just be upstairs if you need me," Sam assured. He reached over and moved the icepack from Michael's stomach up to his forehead, earning a sigh of relief from the ex-spy. Once Michael took over the job of holding the icepack in place, Sam quickly undid his friend's shoes and dumped them beside Michael's bed. When Michael grunted, Sam knew that his efforts weren't for nothing.

"There you go, nighty night, Mikey," Sam muttered and headed up to his spare room.


	2. Small Concessions

AN: Thank you so much for all your reviews! It really inspired me... thus, SECOND chappie! WHO KNEW I'D EVER DO THIS? xD

Anywho, I was so inspired by your reviews... so... I hope you enjoy this chappie!

Disclaimer: I do not own Burn Notice or any of its characters... this is purely FANfiction. That's all. Written by a huge Burn Notice fan!

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Chapter 2:

Small Concessions

There are a few things in life that you honestly don't want to encounter first thing in the morning. Chirping birds. Smoke alarms going off. Teletubbies… or the bathroom door closing, followed by the sounds of retching.

That probably tops the chart.

With a sigh Sam got up and headed downstairs, already a plan forming as to how fix the current dilemma. "Goodmornin', Mikey" he greeted openly, hoping to sound as non-chalant as possible. Sam knew Michael would probably pull his gun on the older man for barging in on his… bathroom break… so, he did what any true friend would do.

"So, you want some of that Hawaiian pizza from last night?" Sam asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a cold one instead, "I'm sure Fi left you a few slices".

_In the field you come into contact with some gory situations that no horror flick could ever manage. Your senses get assaulted by the full effect of the situation and you're left dealing with the after-effects on your own. The trick is, moving your attention to something completely different and breathing deeply._

There was silence for a moment, only to be followed by the sounds of coughing.

_And sometimes that doesn't work._

It took a minute, but Sam's 'buddy' did answer. "No, thank you," Michael answered back. His voice sounded hoarse and strained, but it obvious he was trying to cover it up by hitching his voice up in an attempt to sound cheery.

Sam sighed again, stuck his hand in the fridge again and grabbed a blueberry yogurt and another water bottle. He grabbed a spoon as he walked by the drawers and sat on one of the bar stools.

Two minutes later Michael walked out. He didn't look particularly stable on his feet, his eyes drifted in and out of focus and he still looked a bit green. "Aren't you going to see Val this morning?" he said flatly. It was obvious that he had hoped to be left alone.

"Later, it's only eight anyway," Sam held up his half-drunk beer up against the light, "Yeah… too early to go".

Michael groaned, but smiled through his annoyance, and left it be. He walked past Sam and snatched the three items from Sam's grasp. He knew Sam knew that he was _really _feeling sick… but he still had his integrity to keep.

Sam walked over to the duct-taped chair –"accidentally tripping" over the cold medicine- before sitting down. The two foil sheets slid out of the packet and came to a rest outside the box. "Sorry… yeah, Carla's got some manicure that's supposed to keep her tiger claws busy up until eleven…" he eyed the amount of cold medicine left suspiciously, "Until then… it's better to stick with the lesser proof".

"Beer doesn't have lesser percentage than Mojito's," Michael said and tore open his yogurt, "… So, what's up?".

_When faced with an enemy, especially one who could kill you only using their thumb… sometimes its better just to get to the point and stop playing possum. _

"You never go wild on the rounds, Mikey…" Sam started, his face contorted into a frown.

"The guy was regular, Sam. He might be an idiot… but he was observant enough to notice my little alterations," Michael sniffed and blinked blearily, "He had me go round for round… each spill only cost another drink … apparently the bar also had a 'no ice' policy". Michael sent Sam the look of annoyance, one mixed with a hint of guilt. Even though it _was _their target's explicit order for no ice in their drinks… it still couldn't be helped that the burnt spy felt guilt building up on him. _He wasn't tough enough. _

The ex-spy brought his wrist up to his forehead and tried rubbing his headache away, only to cover it up by brushing through his hair a moment after. He took another bite of the yogurt before covering his mouth. He froze up for a minute before swallowing, looking even more pale than before.

"You alright?" Sam asked, thoroughly freaked out by now.

"I'm f-fi-" Michael paused, pulled his comforter up and sneezed rather harshly into it. "_fine!_"

Sam's eyebrow quirked, "So I see," he quirked and grinned cheekily as Michael glared at him.

Michael unsteadily stood up and waltzed over to the kitchen. He bent down and slowly opened the last drawer, "Sam," the note of annoyance hitched up a notch, "_What exactly _did you do to my place?".

"You had your medicine drawer wired, Mikey…" Sam said and reached over to Michael's cold medicine, "Or what? Blow up half your loft when looking for ibuprofen?". The older man popped out two tablets of the cold medicine. It was obvious that Michael hadn't taken his necessary second dose last night… the packet had been completely untouched.

"… I had a break-in only a week ago… you _know _why I-" Michael started, but his phone started ringing.

Sam stood up and grabbed the phone from its spot next to Michael's mattress, "Hello Fiona!" Sam answered the phone in an oh-so-cheery tone, "Yeah, Mikey is up and adhem".

Restraining himself from rolling his eyes, Michael crouched down and dug around in the drawer. He quickly looked back at Sam before turning his back completely to the man, making sure his back was covering his actions up. He sifted through the contents before he finally popped the lid of his new love. An Ibuprofen bottle. He took out two and dry swallowed them as quickly as possibly. He dropped the bottle back into the drawer and shoved it behind a few of the other contents of the drawer…

_Key to not leaving a trail of evidence? Not allowing anything to show that you had been there in the first place._

"Alright, I'll tell him… " Sam said and nodded, "Yeah, yeah… no problem". Fiona probably hung up abruptly, since Sam's next comment was, "Well, goodbye to you to".

Michael had to use the counter-top's ledge as a lever to pull himself upright again. He sighed and shook his head as if what he had been searching for wasn't in the drawer. He cleared his throat, which turned into a cough, which turned into a coughing fit. He ended up bent over and red-faced when he was finally finished.

"Wow… you alright there, Mike?" Sam asked worriedly, walking up to him with the bottle of water.

_Being an operative means many things. You might be asked to play a bodyguard for a spoilt teen going to a ComiCon. An undercover cashier at a law firm. A schoolteacher. All in order to keep an eye out for the guys who you don't want to have eyes everywhere. Drug-dealers. Money Launderers. Criminals… it also means you learn how to improvise at the drop of a hat when you're cover is questioned. And sometimes it's easier than others. _

The young man took it gratefully and took a gulp of the cool liquid before answering, "Yeah…. Sorry, yogurt went down… the wrong way," he cleared his throat again, wincing as he swallowed, "Thanks".

_Especially when your cover-story isn't as rock solid as you would've liked. _

But, at least the ex-Navy SEAL didn't comment on the fact that the yogurt was in the other room… and had been left there for five minutes. "No problem… here… these might help for the hangover," Sam said and smiled.

Michael looked down at the cold caps and smiled, eternally grateful, "Thanks… I think I ... _might _need them," he conceded and downed them.


End file.
